


Springsick and Autumn-ish

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (due to the arranged marriage thing), Angst, Arranged Marriage, Bad Sex, Canon Compliant, Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Period-Typical Sexism, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 03:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13309893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Jon Arryn took one wife in the summer, and one in the winter. Now, he takes a wife for another season.





	Springsick and Autumn-ish

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "Jon Arryn/Lysa, wedding night. There have been a number of fics about Ned and Cat's wedding night but would love something with the other married couple of the day, awkward and awful as it must have been."

His bride sits naked on the edge of her bed, red as a posy and covering her breasts with her hands. Her lord father said the girls should use their own chambers for the bedding, it would make them more comfortable, but that does not seem to have done Lady Lysa much good.

At least, few ribald jokes come through the door. The crowd all seem much more interested in the Starks' marriage – a patchwork affair born in grief, but still one between two young and handsome people with much to offer one another – than in old Jon Arryn taking yet a third wife, a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.

Jon wants to alleviate her discomfort somehow, but he can't seem to find a way. He should know what to do, for he's the one who's done it twice before, and yet the long ago memories don't seem to help – Jeyne was shy upon their wedding night, but she wasn't scared. Jeyne wasn't afraid of anything. And Rowena, Rowena he knew so well, their marriage was full of love and laughter and kisses.

It's funny. The youngest of his three brides is the only one who comes to him not a maid.

Gently, Jon tucks a finger under young Lysa's chin, tilts her face up to meet his eye. “You don't have to be embarrassed,” he tells her in a voice even he finds miserable, somewhere between a would-be lover's, a concerned father's, and a stablemaster's talking to a skittish colt. “You're a beautiful young woman.”

She swallows deeply, and slowly, hesitantly, lets her arms fall down by her sides. Still, as she does she gives his cock, shrivelled and flaccid between his naked thighs, a withering look. Jon winces, wounded by a vanity he thought he had long since lost. He was handsome as a youth, although with the false modesty of the young he always told himself he neither noticed nor cared if he was – still, when Jeyne came to his marriage bed, for all her shyness she stared at him with heat in her eyes, and when he pushed between her legs he found her wet and ready. Those days are long gone though, and he knows Lysa will never desire him, this grey old man with half a mouth of teeth.

He meant what he said, she is a beautiful woman, albeit maybe a smidgen less so than her sister, but Jon finds himself unable to be aroused when the girl he's meant to lie with is so plainly terrified.

Awkwardly, she raises a hand, reaching halfway for his prick – then she stops, looking up to meet his eye. “Should I–?”

You would never think her soiled. Her face is the very picture of maidenly innocence. Jon knows nothing of how her bastard was sired, other than that Lord Hoster told him he need not worry about the father – and Jon told himself it was best not thinking of it, he would only drive himself mad that way, but now he can't help but wonder. Did it only happen one time, or did the girl keep a lover for months? Was he a man beneath her station, who she could never have wed, or did a nobleman make her promises then abandon her? Did the girl choose to be rid of her child, or did her father make some terrible threat to her if she didn't?

( _No,_ he tells himself. _What man would do that to his daughter?_ )

Part of him aches to tell her no, that she need not do anything she does not wish to, that he'll never touch her if she does not desire it (and he knows she will never desire it) – but he cannot. This alliance needs to be sealed, and moreover, he needs an heir. _Once she's had my son, I promise I'll leave her be._ It's a foolish vow. One son would be as prone to the whims of fate as poor Elbert, as Denys – as Rowena, as Jeyne, as the girl Jeyne died trying to give him. Lysa's hand shakes as she closes it around his length. At his age, he needs all the help he can get.

He closes his eyes. It feels unkind to think of another woman while bedding his bride, but he fears he may not be able to do what he must unless he takes himself away from this night somehow. The first thing he sees is Rowena, her wicked grin and long dark locks and shining blue eyes. Jeyne was his first wife, the only woman to give him a child, albeit one born dead – their marriage was always fond, and she will always have a place in his heart. And yet, Rowena was the woman he loved, since he was a foolish squire of thirteen and she was but ten, a strange girl even then, no good at sewing and dancing and bored to tears by watching him fight, but loving books, tongues, even sums. He has never met another woman, nor man, so smart.

Rowena used to tease him when they lay together, to whisper in his ear _come now Jon, is that the best you can do?_ , to grin and giggle when he wrapped her legs around his waist and fucked her with every inch of strength he had in him. Jeyne was always softer, quieter – although she gasped and moaned enough to tell him she did enjoy it.

Still, he fears Jeyne knew he loved another. He didn't see his cousin during the five years of his first marriage, not wanting to test his fidelity – besides, the great trek down from the heights of the Eyrie was rarely worth it. But he cannot say he was always faithful in his heart.

He hears a small whimper, and opens his eyes to see Lady Lysa again, her hand upon his cock stopped, now he's become half-hard and is bobbing in her palm. She mights his eye again, and he smiles, trying to reassure her – though he likely just makes things worse, with his broken teeth.

“Are you ready?” she asks emotionlessly, although he suspects that's because she's trying very hard not to let her voice tremble. He groans as she strokes him twice more. He almost is, and soon he will be able to let her go from this misery. He imagines Rowena, smirking as she teasingly licks along the length of his cock. He imagines Jeyne, sighing in his ear as she reaches around him and takes him in hand, pleasuring the base of his prick while Rowena pleasures the tip. It seems a lewd, pathetic fantasy, to have both his wives serve his needs at once, but it does the trick.

He nods, and Lysa lets go, lying back on the bed and spreading her legs. She closes her eyes. He hopes she has someone else to think of to, a memory to make this all less unpleasant for her. Jon kneels between her thighs, his legs old and aching. Gently, he traces his finger along the length of her slit. He's not surprised by how dry he finds her, but it does make him sad.

Jeyne wed him at the start of summer, and he still remembers the beams bouncing off her golden hair, shining in her warm brown eyes. She was about the same age Lysa is, and she seemed young even then, when he was a man in his twenties. When Jeyne died, the summer followed her, and Jon almost felt like it was a punishment for having never loved her enough.

He saw Rowena again as they made the arduous autumn journey down from the Eyrie, leaving Jeyne's body behind, and he was so surprised she was still unwed. His uncle had long since given her up for an old maid, and when Jon proposed marriage, he was more than a little surprised. Still, he did not let himself take her until an appropriate period of mourning had passed, and by then winter had come again.

Rowena used to tell him she preferred the winter, and he'd look at her like she was mad, but she laughed they watched the stars outside the Gates of the Moon. She told him the long cold nights were better to read the night sky by, and if you could read the sky, you could read the world. Jon told her that that would be easier when they returned to the Eyrie in the summer, when they would be closer to the sky. She smiled and said they would see.

Behind their backs, people whispered that Lord Arryn must have been mad to wed the girl. She was almost thirty, how could she give him a living heir?

They did not have long to find out. Barely a year after their wedding, the winter chill came for her. Wild, strong Rowena died with barely a word, while gentle, proper Jeyne died screaming, cursing, fighting to give him his child. As the childbed fever took her, she told him he should remarry, he should find another woman to give him a son, to give her daughter a brother. He did not have the heart to tell her any son of his would have no sister.

He never found out if you can read the sky better in summer up high or in winter down low.

“I'm no maid,” Lady Lysa says bitterly, interrupting his reverie, and Jon finds he has spat upon his finger and slid it inside her, trying to stretch her open. “Get on with it.”

Jon frowns. He knows she's not a maid, but she feels so small and tight around him, enough to make him fear breaking her. And yet, she would rather this be done as quickly as possible. He sighs and pulls his finger away, lining his cock up with her slit. He tries to kiss her just before he thrusts in, and she turns her cheek. He takes the hint and does not try again.

There is no passion in it, no lust, only a dull rhythm meant to shoot his seed into her and finally earn his long-needed heir. When Rowena died, he knew he should find another wife, his line still ended at him, he needed a child. And yet, he could not bring himself to do so. He could not bear the thought of another woman being Lady of the Eyrie like Rowena did not get the chance to be. When Ronnel sired Elbert, he took that as an act of mother's mercy, treated the boy almost as his own son, and tried with all his heart not to feel guilty.

But Elbert is dead, and his goodbrother may well die in this war. As may he. He cannot afford to think of anything but his house now.

When he wed Rowena, he feared he was being selfish, that she ought to be siring an Arryn line of her own. Perhaps the gods took her from him because of that. Perhaps the gods have always meant Lysa Tully to mother his heirs, and only his heirs.

From the look on her face when he spends inside her, he'd wager no-one has told her that.

Once he's finished, he pulls out quickly, not wanting to burden her with his presence any longer than necessary. When he does, he notices the stain of red on the sheets. He frowns. When Jeyne bled it did not surprise him, she was a girl no older than Lysa. When Rowena bled, it did surprise him, but she grew unusually shy and told him she'd waited for him. “You're not a maid,” he mutters, and Lysa opens her eyes.

“I'm not,” she says as she looks at the blood between her legs, and then some anger enters her voice. “Perhaps you just hurt me.”

After that she falls asleep, or at least she pretends to – he doesn't have the heart to break the illusion. He sighs. He took one wife for a winter, and one for a summer. Now they stand at the brink of spring, although all Westeros is wary, after the false spring last year. Still, Jon wants to believe the sun will come, that they will tear down the decrepit old Targaryens and replace them with something better, that Robert will reunite with his Lyanna and Ned will find happiness with Lady Catelyn, that his own young wife will give him a dozen strong sons and when he is gone, she will find another husband to give her all the love and passion he is too old for.

But as her red hair spreads across the pillows, he cannot think of spring. He dreams of falling autumn leaves.

 


End file.
